There is still ample daylight left by the time you reach the castle. What appear from the road to be statues of archers mounted every ninety feet or so along the brim of the castle wall turn out to be real men, possessed of the discipline necessary to stand at ready with their bows, seemingly interminably. At the castle gate, their grounded fellows are equally stoic; they are eighteen strong in a somewhat circular formation, halberds at their shoulders and their poise impeccable. Their uniforms are strikingly different from those you've encountered prior, heavy grey fabric over fine-linked chain, tied about with vivid red bands. At their left breast, above the heart, each wears a fine white patch upon which the tower of Tourne has been embroidered in golden thread. Their steel caps and visors are well-polished, glinting back sunlight despite the modest overcast.
The lead among them steps three sharp paces forward as you approach, lifting the metal mask from his face. He is a man of about thirty-five years, and sports a striking and peculiar moustache, the left side smart and short, the right a well grown coil riding his cheek. A cross-shaped scar splits the shape of his nose at its crest.
"May you declare yourselves," he says flatly, his head riding an even plane, his gaze directed at no one so much as the center of your collective mass.
].
